Jennifer Morgue (27 page)
Authors: Charles Stross
"Don't mention it." She doesn't smile. "Mr. Howard? Of Capital Laundry Services?" She pronounces my name as if she's getting ready to serve a writ.
"Um, yes. You are ..."
"Liza Sloat, of Spleen, Sloat, and Partners." Her cheek twitches in something that might be a smile, or just neuralgia.
"We have the privilege of handling the Billingtons' personal accounts. I believe we nearly met yesterday."
"We did?" Suddenly I remember where I know her from.
She's the lawyer who was dogging Billington's footsteps, the one with the briefcase who went to see the casino president.
I smile. "Yes, I remember now. To what do I owe the pleasure"
The twitch turns into a genuine smile, albeit about as warm as liquid nitrogen. "Mr. Billington is running late today. He'll be along later in the evening, and meanwhile you're to make yourself at home." The smile slides away, replaced by a stare so coldly calculating that I shiver. "That is his prerogative. Personally, I think he is a little too trusting.
You're rather young for a bidding agent in this auction."
The smile reappears. "You might want to remind your employers of our history of successful litigation against individuals, organizations, and entities that try to interfere with the smooth running of our legitimate commercial operations.
Good day."
She turns on one spiked black heel and clicks back in the direction of the inner room. What the hell was that about? I wonder unwisely taking a mouthful from my glass. I manage not to spew it everywhere, but it tastes even worse than it smelled: pure essence of turpentine with a finish of cheap gin and a tangy undernote of kerosene. "Gah." I swallow convulsively, wait for the steam to stop trickling out of my nose, and go looking for a potted plant that appears hardy enough to survive being irrigated with the stuff.
The salon next door is thickly carpeted, and curtained like an up-market whorehouse in a movie about fin-de-siecle Paris.
Most of the folks here are clustered around the gaming tables and while some of the ladies from Pale Grace(TM) Cosmetics have wandered in, it looks to be mostly Billington's court of louche shareholders and their anorexic, artistically inclined, fashion-model fuck-bunnies. I'm moving towards the baccarat table when one of the younger and pushier sales associates appears in front of me, smiles ingratiatingly, and holds out her hand. "Hi! I'm Kitty. Isn't it great to be here"
I squint at her from behind my regrettably full glass, then raise an eyebrow. "I suppose it is," I concede, "for some values of'great.' Do I know you"
Kitty stares at me, freezing like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut. She's blonde, her hair lacquered into place like the glass fiber weave of a crash helmet awaiting the resin spray: she's pretty in a mascara'd and lip-glossed kind of way. "Aren't you, uh, really famous or something"
she stammers. "Mrs. Billington always invites famous speakers to these events — "
I force myself to smile benevolently. "That's okay, I don't mind you not recognizing me." I take a sip of the martini: it's revolting but it's got alcohol in it, so it can't be all bad. "It's rather refreshing, actually, being a nobody who people overlook all the time." Kitty smiles uncertainly, as if she's not sure whether I'm deploying irony or something equally exotic. "What brings you here, Kitty?" I ask, putting on my sincerest expression.
"I'm Busy Bee Number One for the Minnesota sales region! I mean, I have a really great team and they're amazingly great workers but it's such an honor, don't you think?
And only last year we were sixty-second out of seventy-four regional teams! But I figured my girls just needed something to shoot for so I gave them new targets and a new promotional pricing structure with discount incentivization and it worked like crazy!" She half-covers her mouth: "And the viral marketing thing, too, but that's something else. But it was my worker bees who did it all, really! There are no drones in my hive!"
"That's, uh, truly excellent," I say, nodding. A thought strikes me: "What particular products are doing well at the moment? I mean, is there anything special that's responsible for your sales growth"
"Oh, well, you know we've tracked the vertical segmentation of our region and different hives have different merchandise footprints, but you know something? It's the same everywhere, the Pale Grace(TM) Skin Hydromax(R) cream is, you know, walking off the shelves!"
"Hmm." I try to look thoughtful, which isn't difficult: How the hell do you package a glamour in an ointment pot? I shake my head in admiration and take another sip of drain cleaner.
"That's really good to know. Maybe I should use it myself"
"Oh, of course you should! Here, take my card; I'd be happy to set you up with a range of free samples and an initial consultation." Her card isn't just a piece of cardboard, it's a scratch 'n' sniff sample as complex as a Swiss Card survival tool — I manage to slide it into my pocket without getting any of the stuff on my skin. Kitty gushes in my direction, her eyes lighting up as she moves into the standard sales script, her voice softening and lowering with a compelling sincerity that is at odds with her natural bubbly extroversion: "The ErythroComplex-V in the Pale Grace(TM) Skin Hydromax(R) range is clinically proven to reverse ageing-induced cytoplasmic damage to the skin and nail cuticles. Just one application begins to undo the ravages of free radicals and enhance the body's natural production of antioxidants and cytochrome polyesterase inhibitors. And it's so creamy smooth! We make it with one hundred percent natural ingredients, unlike some of our competitors ..."
I slip away while she's reciting her programmed spiel, and she doesn't even notice as I sidle up to a potted palm and take a last reflective mouthful of dry martini. My wards blipped slightly as her script kicked in, but that doesn't have to mean she's a robot, does it? We make it with one hundred percent natural ingredients, like the bottom tenth percentile of our sales force, the ones who don't get invited to this end of the marketing conference by the Queen Bee. Maybe Kitty's just a natural void, only too happy to be filled by the passing enthusiasm of the traveling salesman invocation, but somehow I doubt it: that kind of perfect vacuum doesn't come cheap.
I scuff my left heel on the ground. If I switched it on, the Tiilinghast resonator that Brains installed in my shoe would let me see the sales-daemon riding her spine like a grotesquely bloated digger wasp, but I'd just as soon keep my lunch — and anyway the first law of demonoiogy is that if you can see it, // can see you. But the small of my back itches as I glance round at the overdressed hedonists and the scarily neat saleswomen because I'm putting together a picture here that I really don't like: dinner jacket or no, I'm underdressed for the occasion, although Ramona fits right in.
While I'm having these grim thoughts, I notice that my martini glass is nearly empty. It's not a terribly endearing drink — it tastes like something that got hosed off a runway then diluted with antifreeze — but it does what it says on the label. I've got a nasty feeling I'm going to need plenty of Dutch courage to get through this evening. What that horrible lawyer-creature Sloat was saying is sinking in: This is either a cover or a warm-up for some sort of auction, isn't it?
Maybe Billington is planning on selling whatever he dredges up from JENNIFER MORGUE Site Two to the highest bidder. That would make plenty of sense and it'd explain why the Black Chamber and the Laundry are both riled up about it, but I can't shake the feeling that this isn't the whole story: What was the business with Marc all about? Assuming it's connected. Maybe Ramona knows something she'd be willing to share with me.
I shake my head and look around. I don't see her among the glitterati at the gaming tables, but there are enough people here that she could have wandered off. ''You there?'' I ask silently, but she isn't answering and I can't sense what she's doing. It's as if she's figured out how to draw a thick blackout curtain around her mind, keeping me out when she doesn't want me around. That'd be a neat skill to have, I think, then mentally kick myself. What one of us can do the other can learn really fast. I'll just have to ask her how she does it whenever she comes out of hiding. At least she's not in trouble, I guess; given the nature of our link, I'm certain I'd know if she was.
I circulate back towards the bar in the other room and plant my glass on it, then turn round to see if I can spot either of the Billingtons among the happy-clappy flock of saleswomen: Ellis may be delayed but I can't see his wife throwing a revival-style party for her faithful without circulating to stroke her flock. "Another of the same?" murmurs the barman, and before I can make up my mind to say "no" he's fished but a glass and is pouring gin with a soup ladle. I nod at him and take it, then head back towards the gaming tables in the back room. I'm not going to drink it, I decide, but maybe if I keep it in my hand it'll stop anyone from trying to refill the bloody glass again.
The crowd near the tables is noisy and they're smoking and drinking like there's no tomorrow. I strain to see what's going on over a gaggle of sericulture-vultures with big hair.
It's a baccarat table and from the disorganization there it looks like a game's just ended. Half a dozen of Billingtons crowd are moving in while an old fart who looks like a merchant banker leans back in his chair, sipping a glass of port.
"Ah, Mr. Howard I believe." I nearly jump out of my skin before I recall that I'm supposed to be suave and sophisticated, or at least gin-pickled to the point of insensibility.
"Care for a game"
I glance round. I vaguely recognize the guy who knows my name. He's in early middle-age, crew cut, solidly built, and he fills his tuxedo with an avuncular bonhomie that I instinctively mistrust; he reminds me of the sort of executive who can fire six thousand people before lunch and go to a charity fundraiser the same evening with his sense of selfrighteousness entitlement undented. "I'm not much of a gambler," I murmur.
"That's okay, all I ask is that you're a good loser." He grins, baring a perfect row of teeth at me. "I'm Pat, by the way. Pat McMurray. I consult on security issues for Mr.
Billington. That's how I know about you."
"Right." I nod as I give him the hairy eyeball. He winks at me slowly, then tugs his left ear lobe. He's wearing an earring that looks a lot like a symbol I see most days at the office on my way past the secure documents store in Dansey House.
This isn't in the script: Security consultants who've been briefed on me? Gulp. I try to feel what Ramona's doing again, but no luck. She's still got that blackout curtain up. "What kind of security issues do you consult on?" I ask. "Well, you know, that's a good question." He points at my glass. "Why are you drinking that garbage when there's perfectly good liquor behind the bar"
I stare at it. "It just sort of slipped into my hand."
"Heh. You come over to the bar and we'll get you a real man's drink. One that doesn't taste like drain cleaner." He turns and heads for the bar in complete certainty that I'll follow him, so I do. The bastard knows I need to know what he knows and he knows I can't say no. He leans on the bar and announces: "Two double tequila slammers on the rocks."
Then he turns to me and raises an eyebrow. "You're wondering what I do here, aren't you?"
"Um." Well, yes.
He must take it as agreement, because he nods encouragingly.
"Ellis Billington's a big guy, you've got to know that.
Big guys tend to pick up parasites. That's nothing new.
Trouble is, what Ellis picks up is a different class of bloodsucker. See, you know who his company subcontracts for: this makes him a target for people who don't want just his money, they want a piece of him. So he hires specialist talent to keep them at arm's reach. Mostly ex-employees of you-know-who, plus a few freelancers." He taps his chest. The bartender sets two glasses down in front of us; crystals frost their edges and they're full of a colorless, slightly oily liquid, along with a slice of lemon. "C'mon. Back to the table, bring your glass.
Let's play a round."
"But I don't gamble — " I begin, and he stops dead.
"You'll gamble and like it, son. Or Ellis Billington ain't going to make time for you."
Huh? I blink. The brown envelope labeled EXPENSES feels extremely hot and as heavy as a gold brick in my breast pocket. "Why"
"Could be that he don't approve of limp-dicked limeys,"
McMurray mugs. "Or could be it's all part of the script.
Besides, you'll enjoy it, you know you will. Go on, over to the cashier. Get yourself chipped up." Moments later I'm swapping the contents of the envelope for a pile of plastic counters. Black, red, white: six months' salary gone to plastic. My mind's spinning like a hamster wheel. This isn't in the script I'm working from, either the gambling or McMurray's stark ultimatum. But it's all running on rails, and there's no way to get off this train without blowing the timetable. So I follow McMurray over to the table, trying to figure out the odds. House cards: nil. That's four in fourteen of anything I draw. Then it's modular arithmetic down to the wire, the sort of thing I could do in my head if it was in hexadecimal. Alas, playing cards predates hex and I've just sunk four shots of expensive gin and I'm not sure I can build a lookup table in my head fast enough to be of any use.
I sit down. The old toad with the cigar nods at us. "I bought the bank," he announces. "Place your bets. Opening at five thousand." The croupier next to him holds up the shoe and six sealed packs of cards. Four elderly vultures in frocks giggle and hunch at one end of the kidney-shaped table and two guys in DJs and big moustaches sit at the other end.
McMurray and I end up in the middle opposite the old toad.
A couple more gamblers take their seats — a woman with skin the color of milk chocolate and the complexion of a supermodel, and a guy in a white suit, open-necked shirt, and more bling than the Bank of England. "Opening at five thousand," repeats the banker.
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